Lemons Are Blue
by Kagetaka
Summary: There are no more friends left in this world, only two lonely girls seeking to escape. Before she does though, Ib will make sure that number drops down to one.


**Lemons Are Blue**

 _She understands at last_.

There are many words Ib can't read yet- she is only 9 years old, smart, resourceful, and steadfast for a 9 year old, but still- only 9.

 _When the rose ?, so you too shall ? away_.

She understands now. She wishes she didn't.

 _Loves me… loves me not… loves me… He LOVES me!_

There is nothing left but a hollow dead stem and no amount of water in a vase will bring the impossibly colored petals back. She knows now. She tried. It's something that's gone and won't return now, no matter what.

They are the rose and the rose is them.

Garry's rose won't bloom again. Its petals are gone and it will never be again.

Garry is… sleeping. But he will never wake again.

Is it sleeping though? Ib thinks there must be another word- that ? word- a word she simply does not understand how to squint and make them come together into something comprehensible yet. But she understands its meaning now, and she wishes that Garry were not so eager to explain. To teach. She doesn't want to learn this.

No, that wasn't right. Garry had tried- up to the end, to disguise this ? as merely exhaustion- as something… that would come and go. Just like a nap. Go on ahead, he'd told her.

I'll come running.

Ib had gone on ahead. She'd watched the petals twisted, crushed, one by one in Mary's hand. Each petal that fell to the ground, she felt the twisting and crushing deep in the pit of her chest. After the girl had so carelessly tossed the stem to the ground and dashed off, Ib had picked up the stem and turned it over, several times in her hands. Gathered up the petals, so small and shriveled and almost black now.

She'd put them all in a vase, filled with the water she'd come to associate with a pure, whole feeling. Nothing happened. The petals were still black and small. The stem still empty and bare. She broke the vase, and the Gallery hissed in displeasure.

She doesn't care now. She's learned something today.

The rose is broken and so is Garry. She cannot put the rose back together. She cannot put the vase back together. And this time, she cannot put Garry back together.

Mary is a painting. Garry told her so, before her rose got taken away- before Garry traded his for hers. Mary is not like them, but is trying to be.

To be like them she had to make one of their roses broken- broken so that it can never be fixed, ever again.

She looks at the stem and petals in her hand. She drops them. There is nothing left for them now but to return to the earth.

She goes back to Garry, where he is sleeping against the wall. He is broken… he can't wake up from it. In his hand, loosely held, is his lighter, the item that had caused the Gallery to fly into a panic. His last gift to her- she knows what should be done as she picks it up and weighs its power in her hands.

Ib paints the thorns and yellow roses orange and red at first- then they become black and shrivel away. Mary is hiding something here- and Ib thinks she knows what.

She wraps herself in the silence. Missing are the sounds of longer strides behind her and the constant reassurance.

There are no more friends left in this world, only two lonely girls seeking to escape. Before she does though, Ib will make sure that number drops down to one.

Mary does not deserve to take Garry's place. Mary will pay for _stealing_ Garry's place. Just as the Gallery had endlessly proclaimed her a thief from the start and had tortured them equally endlessly for it.

At the end of the hall she sees it, a single frame hanging far, far away from the rest of the gallery, jealously guarded.

"I-Ib? What are you doing here?"

 _These_ footsteps behind her are short, light, _fake_. Ib does not answer, nor does she turn around.

"H-hey. The exit's not this way- come on, I know where it is. We can leave this place together..."

Still she says nothing. Does not move, does not acknowledge. The lighter's cool metal grows warm in her tight grip. Come what may, she is prepared. Garry is watching over her. Garry is still protecting her, right here, in her hand.

Another light step forward, Ib takes her own so that _she_ cannot come any closer. "Come… on. You shouldn't be here, Ib. Leave…. Leave! LEAAAAAAVE….!"

Red cracks spiral uncontrollably under her feet and Ib leaps into action as the red lines spread everywhere. She isn't scared, not anymore. She knows now what happens when the rose in her hand loses all its petals and if she fails, it isn't so bad… to remain here sleeping by Garry's side forever.

But… she thinks, Garry would be sad to hear her think that. Because Garry had traded his rose for hers so Mary wouldn't break her instead. So she really doesn't want to fail- she wants to escape not-broken like Garry would have wanted her to. Maybe it was stupid, coming here knowing she was wandering into the dragon's den. She doubts Garry had taken the lighter out to encourage her to seek out Mary, after all. It should have been just a precaution, to give her one final protection when he could not protect her anymore.

But right now, in the spiral of loss and at the end of fear, Ib wants nothing more than to do the same to Mary. Break her so she could never be put back together again.

Her fingers are already fumbling against the switch of the lighter, as her feet take flight, taking her closer and closer to the empty painting at the end of the room, and Mary is not far behind her, her speed born from a desperation to survive- to live- to escape.

In the end, Mary's will to escape is powerful and deadly like a serpent darting its way through grass, but Ib's bitter cold grief given way to rage is a wildfire that devours everything.

Even Mary can sense it, and is overwhelmed by it. In the end she can only manage one final plea. "Ib- Please! Nooooo!"

Mary is the snake and Ib is a wildfire, and truly it isn't Mary chasing Ib so much as the snake _fleeing_ from the fire.

 _Click_.

The tiny flame blossoms, and engulfs the painting in a spectacular flash of light. Glass shatters and Mary _screams_.

Ib watches the snake be devoured, turn black and wilt into ashes, the flame on the lighter still on, still pressed underneath the blazing portrait. The heat is almost too much to bear and Ib finally moves away, remembering the fragile state of her rose.

The pallette knife, the serpent's bared fangs, falls to the ground with a heavy and final clang.

She takes it with her, for the same reasons Mary had uttered. Just in case. There isn't enough room in her pockets, so she rummages around and pulls out…

...A small lemon-flavored candy.

The lighter is important- with it, even the Gallery feared her. The lighter will not work on everything though- there are sculptures and mannequin heads who cannot burn. The pallette knife will work.

But this candy… No, she has one more thing in her pockets. A handkerchief from her 9th birthday, given to her by her mother with the word 'Ib' stitched in red. It didn't seem so important anymore, turning 9. Or when she turned 10, 11, 12, and so on.

Candy, handkerchief, lighter, or knife?

The moment she'd woken from a nightmare and Garry had been there, worrying about her. Finding his coat draped over her small shivering form and taking the candy out from the pocket.

The large plush bunny her father had presented her with, the handkerchief her mother had cheerfully pressed into her hands, illuminated by nine lights on a beautifully decorated cake.

Garry sleeping against the wall, lighter in an open hand almost as if offering it up to someone.

Mary, burning, melting into ashes, knife falling to the floor.

Her fingers fumble the plastic wrapper, and she finally pops the candy into her mouth. It is more sweet than it is tangy and she closes her eyes in remembrance. It is like him, a gentle soothing flavor. Maybe she'll ask her mother to buy some more when she goes home.

She pockets the lighter and holds the knife and sets foot out of Mary's 'home'- heading back to where Garry is. Fair is fair, he'd given her his lighter so she would give him this-

Ib places the handkerchief in his outstretched palm and with hers, so much smaller, closes his hands into a fist around the fabric.

It's kind of damp with a few drops… but there isn't time to honor it with more. The Gallery is unpredictable as its creator, and though Mary is gone, the threat remains. Ib stands and allows her gaze to linger over Garry's sleeping form for one precious second longer, before stepping away to leave.

She does not turn back around.

? World. She scrutinizes it, leaning this way and that. It looks like faint scribbles but it also makes sense in some way. It's the art gallery she'd been exploring before the lights had mysteriously gone out.

Speaking of lights…

They flicker, not unlike before, and Ib is tense again, looking around distrustfully for any changes in the scenery. It's different this time- she is prepared whatever may come. There is no one left to protect her. There is no one she will allow to protect her again- not at the cost it's come by.

The frame vanishes from the ? World painting and Ib steps back with a startled gasp. Nothing happens, so she draws back toward it, fascinated. One hand comes up and traces the canvas with a finger, but instead, the digit breaks into the cloth, the entire painting rippling like water.

This is it. This is the exit she and Garry had been longing for. He should have been here, right next to her, reading out the name of the painting for her.

Ib sticks her hand through, against the bottom of the painting- it's oddly solid but this way she can pull herself up and in.

"Ib…"

The voice, soft, gentle, soothing, _familiar_ , gives Ib pause. It can't be. She turns, and her eyes don't deceive her.

Garry is here.

"Garry…" She speaks softly, and the tears almost escape her eyes. "Garry… how?" She chokes out.

Had she been wrong after all? About the roses? About the '?'?

She wants to go to him. She wants to run to him. She almost does, pulling her hand back from the portrait and facing him fully, the feelings of _want_ and _need_ so overwhelmingly strong.

She doesn't know why, but the lighter feels so hot _hotHOT_ in her hand-

"I don't know… I just woke up. But why are you over here? I found the exit, it's over there. We can leave this place together!"

It gives her blossoming hope for a split second but as she takes a step forward- the lighter erupts into molten slag in her hand and Ib slaps a hand over her forehead- the pain is coming from within, not from the lighter…! She stumbles and almost falters, but even through the pain she refuses to fall any more.

In a flash- the familiar figure seems to change in her eyes, twisting until there's just a short blonde figure superimposed over him, fear and fury in her sky blue eyes.

" _H-hey. The exits not this way- come on, I know where it is. We can leave this place together..."_

Ib blinks and clutches her head- when the pain finally clears, the lighter is cool and lifeless in her hand, and it's just Garry standing there again and his eyes are not the timid warm ones with false bravado she knew from before, nor are they the kind ones that bade her to go on while he steadily broke inside-

They are full of cold fear.

And then she understands from before, the painting of her parents, of the ladies crawling out of their portraits, of Mary who seemed so human.

Even from beyond whatever has him in its icy cold lifeless grip, Garry is still watching her back, protecting her. Slowly, she holds out her fisted hand concealing the lighter within, red eyes unflinching as black - _fakefakeFAKEJUSTLIKEHER-_ ones gaze questioningly back.

"Ib? Come on… what are you waiting for? We're almost free…!"

Without a word, she wrenches the lighter- Garry's lighter and lights it, thrusting the flickering flame between herself and 'Garry'.

In that moment, the flame seems to die out and instead, she sees him, a tall black-clothed figure- _his_ figure, stands with both arms thrown out to either side before her, as if declaring to his counterpart-

' _You won't lay a finger on her'_

-then she blinks and there is only a tiny lick of blue flame extended out between herself and 'Garry'.

'Garry's' reaction is instantaneous, drawing back with a horrid scream that sounds nothing like Garry- and it's all the confirmation Ib needs to put out the flame and grip the frame's edge with both hands.

She only pauses for a moment, turning to face 'Garry'. "You're not Garry." She declares, and then pulls herself through.

' _Atta girl…'_

' _...Ib.'_

"IIIIBBBBB!" The fear in 'Garry's' voice turns to utter fury as it howls her name, ringing in her ears as she tumbles through colors. But she doesn't care. All she's focused on is the last warm words whispered into her ears, praising her for escaping, and tears start falling with her consciousness into the light.

She doesn't remember- she can't say how this lighter got in her pocket or where the knife came from, though when her parents find her, she shoves them back out of sight because _they're important she doesn't want to lose them_.

There's a faint tang of lemon, sweet and mellow on her tongue, and it reminds her of the color blue- why?

Lemons are yellow, not blue. Everyone knows that.

Then Ib frowns because yellow is not a kind color- why?

She doesn't remember, but is it still okay to say she knows?

"Oh, my… blue roses." Her mother sighs, pointing at one portrait they've somehow all missed seeing. "Such an odd choice."

"That's right-" Her father agrees. "Blue roses don't actually exist. But if they did- I wonder what would they represent?"

"What do you mean, dear?" Her mother asks.

"I mean, red and pink roses are for love, right?" He rattles off instantly, ticking one finger. Raising the second one, he continues. "Yellow roses are envy, jealousy. Black ones are like… death."

Blue is sorrow, to Ib. But she doesn't say this out loud because her parents seem genuinely happy to be debating the finesse of Guertena's art and his choice of symbolisms. But blue is also kindness… and for some reason, she still can't shake the thought, but blue is also the taste of lemon. Blue is the hottest kind of fire, the kind that protects her from… from…?

Frustration. Grief. Anger. Desperation. A taste of sweet, sweet lemon, the slightly musky scent of smoke, a flickering light in darkness.

' _I don't remember_ ' She thinks.

"Ah- here's the name." Her father points at the small golden plaque. "Can you read it, Ib?"

She totters forward uncertainly, squinting her eyes at the words.

A male's voice, young, a little raspy, but warm, reads them out loud. ' _Forgotten Portrait.'_

"Forgotten Portrait." Ib repeats, before blinking and looking around oddly. Then she looks up. It's a painting of a young man, with the oddest yet most natural purple hair she's ever seen, sleeping against a wall, entrapped by thorns and blue roses.

"Good job, Ib!" Her mother is praising, looking pleased. "I didn't know you knew so many big words already."

"He told me." She answers absentmindedly, looking at the young man. "That's his name."

' _Are you sure, Ib?'_ The same voice laughs, at the same time her mother does.

"Yes." _No_. It's not really the boy's name, she's certain it was on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't know it.

A sad soft laugh and she can't tell the difference between the voices anymore. ' _I see.'_

And all of a sudden tears spring unbidden to her eyes because it's almost as if the painting is disappointed in her and she _just doesn't understand-doesn't KNOW why_.

"Ib?" "Ib!" Both her parents are calling in worry but Ib cannot stop these tears that fall for some strange portrait in this grand but bizarre exhibit.

"Come on Ib. We're going home." Looking exceptionally worried, her father- good kind strong man so much like him- ushers her away, or at least tries to.

She lets herself be guided a few steps. Then she turns against her father's will and whispers. "I'm sorry…"

' _It's okay, Ib.'_ Her father pats her head and the portrait remains still as ever.

It's not, not really. She knows it, the portrait knows it, her parents don't know it. "I'm sorry!" She repeats, louder this time.

"Ib, we know." Her mother speaks this time, and there is nothing, no whisper of the young man. "Come on. Let's go. Don't you want to see that little macaron shop that opened up down the road?"

It's a thought that only makes her choke up further and Ib frantically shakes her head. "No. No. I want to go home. Please."

Reload save file?

=Yes= No


End file.
